String of Beads
by BlindWhitechapel
Summary: A few stories strung together like beads: each its own entity apart from the string, but each also a part of the whole. Rated for alcohol, profanity, and het and slash pairings. Individual content warnings begin each chapter. Written by Whitechapel.
1. Guile

A/n: This is the first bead on the string. Warnings: alcohol references, a single word of profanity, a certain something that I suppose could be categorized as self-mutilation, maybe a little squick. Nothing graphic, though.

It's obtuse. It's erratic. It's meandering. These are deliberate elements, so if you don't like this one, try the next one. Last time I checked, chapter two was sober.

Ah, yes, and the disclaimer. Naturally, I claim ownership of nothing but the disturbing little notion birthed when encountering a certain character at a bar.

* * *

Guile

Debauched:  
Uncomplete

The moonlight poured in through the window and pooled on every flat surface of my small but cozy inn room. Where it touched me its dim, cool radiance made my already pale skin seem translucent, milky; my arms, shaded from the sun by long sleeves, were even whiter than my hands. For a moment I waxed imaginative—in a drunken, fuddled sort of way—and fancied that I was some sort of romantic poet, writing the greatest works of the modern era while starving to death on opium and dreams.

Then the vision shattered, and I laughed as I took another drink of the whiskey, sitting in its crystal tumbler on the windowsill a few inches from my right hand. I almost knocked the glass off the narrow ledge; had been any more inebriated, I might have, indeed. Then I would have owed the bar downstairs the price of one purloined, smashed crystal whiskey tumbler as well as three days' room and board. Interesting phrase, "room and board." I hadn't stepped out of the room for three days, and I forbade anyone but the girl who brought the whiskey to step into it. As for board, I had dwelt upon the idea, pondered it for several hours yesterday, and so far I hadn't been able to come up with an activity I had engaged in within this room that was raw enough to deserve that moniker.

But I didn't—drop the glass, that is. It tottered on the edge of oblivion for a few seconds, and while I was drunk enough to want to whisper that it mustn't defenestrate itself, I wasn't quite drunk enough to let the words pass my lips. In all things self-control, I thought to myself; words to live by. In the end it didn't matter, because, with or without my encouragement, the glass righted itself, and I managed to move it a few inches to safety without compromising things—reflexes, for example, or perhaps dignity—overmuch.

I couldn't help but wonder what those with whom I traveled would think of me now. I suspected I was hardly recognizable as the usual face I put toward the world: my jacket hung over the back of the chair where I sat; it is a real bitch to clean, and alcohol, particularly fine whiskey, shows up very well on white fabric. The shirt I had on under it was unbuttoned over my collarbones, the sleeves rolled up past my elbows. My hair was coming unraveled from its confinement, creeping its gradual way toward the puddle of moonlight on the table as if unaware that I would let it fall if it wanted to do so that badly. Gravity, after all, must always have its way, is that not so? If not for its influence, I couldn't be sitting here coming uncompleted, now could I? Ah, more pearls of wisdom. And they say drinking is bad for one's thought processes.

There was only a swallow left in the glass which had just moments ago very nearly been a tumbler in the most real sense of the word, which led me to contemplate the whiskey bottle, standing sentry in front of me on the tiny table. The bottle stared back at me with the implacable stare of a veteran gambler. In the end I decided that maybe a refill was not the thing just yet. Best, I concluded, to finish the things that were already here before inviting in any more. Yes, I was a veritable oracle tonight: Guile, the Drunken Oracle of the Nearly-Defenestrated Glass. I had to smile again at my own wit, although there was no one in the room to impress with either thing.

I held the tumbler above my head and gazed up into it, peering through the thin haze of alcohol at the bottom. Everything wrong with my life was hovering in this liquid amnesia; all my problems hung suspended here in too-real animation before my very eyes, playing out on the backdrop of the ceiling. As I stared at it, becoming dizzy from staring, tipsy, at the pulsing ceiling, I pondered the meaning of the word uncomplete. I know incomplete is a word; it means "never finished," or "missing a piece." But uncomplete, now that is a bit different. I say it intending it to mean "having once been completed, but now missing a crucial piece; something which has been undone just enough to be unfinished." Uncomplete, as in, "someone sitting at a tiny table in an inn far from home drinking himself too far down to converse with his mind in a rational way, for reasons he cannot even speak aloud no matter how drunk."

Enough of that. Self pity is unbecoming. Don't just sit here like a helpless fool. Do _something_.

I knocked the rim of the glass against the edge of the table, breaking off a chip from the rim, and thereby uncompleting it, whereupon I discovered that crystal will cut like glass when given the proper incentive. Blood welled from the wound, easing its way down my palm and sliding into my life line—or perhaps my love line, I couldn't remember. I tilted my hand and allowed a drop of blood to fall into the amber, where it floated like a legless centipede, spreading into swirls and inquisitive tendrils. Inspired by this sight, I dripped another drop into the glass, repeating the swirling motion until it was spread like the first drop, but neither was quite fully dissolved. Mesmerized, the liquor interfering with the voice of caution, I dipped my finger into the concoction, letting some of it fall into my eye in order to better see what the world looked like through the lens of uncompletion.

It was disappointing; it stung like hell, and I barely got to see anything before my eye watered the offending substance away. But for a moment the inside of my head got some air, and that was worth the trouble of looking like some two-faced god, crying for the futility of mortality: to be alive is to be alone, kept from true congress by a prison of flesh.

In the end, I decided that, in spite of the edifying experiment, in order to get the fullest benefit from incorporating whiskey into ones faculties, it was still best to take it as it was meant to be taken. Unsteady with one eye screwed shut and whiskey-loosened limbs, I went for the ice in the bathroom—I needed some water.

* * *

A/n: Belated apologies to those who stumbled into this story before I included the warning, and found themselves a little bothered by it.


	2. Nikki

A/n: Thanks go out to **Paladin Dragoon**, who was the only one to have reviewed this at the time I decided to move on. Yes, there are a few chapters which are short. I kept that one brief because the original had some…interesting details. I don't want to be too graphic since my writing on this site is still in its infancy.

This chapter contains some het type stuff, nothing too graphic, pretty fluffy and sweety-sweet. I am not a sweety-sweet type of person, so go ahead and mock me if it's atrocious….

* * *

Nikki

Pleased:  
Decrescendo

It was the time of the coda: _legato_; _sostenuto._ It was the dream reversed, the sediment of magic, sound and rhythm peeling layer by layer into the silence...my signal to relax at last. This table, this side-lit mirror that would tell me where I had missed a spot in my careful nightly cleansing, were parts of the ritual. I wasn't a religious man, but this came as close to prayer as any priest's kneeling and candle-lit midnight vigils. I was just praying to a different god, that was all.

Slowly, somewhere between eye shadow and lipstick, the tension in my back began to ease, the knot between my shoulder blades to come untied. Between the last wash of cleanser and the bath to wash away adrenaline and sweat from my skin, all aches were dispelled, so that I was exhausted by the time I emerged from the bathtub.

She was at the table when I came into the bedroom; having already bathed while I was taking off my makeup, she was now taking care of her own shapely face. All she had on was a pair of pajama pants and a clip to hold her hair away from her neck and face as she washed away the last of the show. She looked more beautiful to me in that moment than she ever did after all her hours' work of preparation for a performance, perhaps because of how human she seemed as opposed to the unearthly, untouchable creature of costume and amplification. Her face contorted as she wiped paint from her cheeks, she still managed a smile as I kissed the top of her head.

"Looking good, Miki," I smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"It went pretty well tonight, do you think?" she asked, now working on her forehead. "I really felt connected on stage—how about you?"

I loved how she never pretended to be self-effacing when she didn't feel like it was called for. She had performed gracefully tonight; her voice had been in exceptional condition, and she had never missed a single gesture. She knew her piece of the show had been exemplary, and she could admit it without ever seeming arrogant.

"You worked really hard," I praised her. "I wish I had five just like you—we could take over the whole world."

She shook her head. "I don't," she said, "because then you'd never know which one of us was the real me." Turning to me, she asked earnestly: "Did I get it all?"

I took her face in my hands, carefully turning it this way and that, and finally pronounced her done, unable to resist flicking the end of her nose with a fingertip. She slapped my arm with a squeak, and I blew out the light, getting into bed.

She climbed in beside me and pulled up the quilt under her chin, sighing happily and putting one arm around me. "Night," she said, tucking herself close enough that I could feel her small bare breasts against my chest. "I love you." I didn't return her embrace just yet; I remembered something she had forgotten. Rather than telling her, though, I decided to let her find out for herself.

"Ooh! I almost forgot." She sat up and pulled the clip out of her hair, reaching across me to set it down on the nightstand. I said nothing, merely enjoyed her small intrusion into my personal space. She smelled of the bath and clean bed linen, so I can't say I exactly minded.

There. "Are you finished, dear heart?" I asked as she drew the blanket up over herself again.

She giggled. "You tease me too much, Nikki." But there was no rebuke in her voice. "Goodnight."

This time I returned the arm that crept around my side, guessing she had remembered everything. "Goodnight."


	3. Orlha

A/n: Paladin Dragoon: thanks for the continuing review. You don't need to worry about content at all; I promise that if I decide to include anything the least bit risqué, I will make note of it as an author's comment. I'm glad you thought it was cute. I thought it was a little anemic.

Yami Silverdramon: I know the first one was a little bit weird, but I originally cut it down from a much stronger version of the same story; I cut out a lot of stuff that seemed a bit old for the rest of the stories I put in here. This one falls somewhere between the first one and the second one in terms of tone and content.

As always, I here include the necessary disclaimer: I do not, sadly, own this fantastic work. If I did, I would have made more of different characters.

Oh yes: Some swearing, themes of mild infatuation, mention made of slash pairings. Nothing graphic; Herr Gott, get your minds out of the gutter!

* * *

Orlha

Introspective:  
Man

What does it take to grow a boy up? At what point does he cross the invisible line of his childhood, and become that fabled creature known as "a man?" Is it different for each one of them, or are there some experiences that define every young man's crossover? These are the bartender's feminine musings. You see, I'm not supposed to serve boys or girls, only women and men. Being a woman, I know what criteria must be met in order for a girl to achieve the transition; girls can't bullshit me with their assertions that breasts make womanhood. I know better, thanks, because I have both.

Is it maturity? Glenn is mature beyond his years; he was a man without ever really getting to enjoy being a boy. He's had such sadness and so many high expectations heaped upon him that some days I wonder how he keeps his shoulders from breaking for the weight they bear. If he came in here and asked for a glass of wine or a double whiskey, I guess I would give it to him. See, I pride myself on being able to guess a person's drink. Glenn is a wine sort of person, but there's at least one double whiskey in that scar on his face. Water, no ice.

Is it responsibility? Karsh is a man by sheer dint of experience. He's the sort of customer bartenders like me like: he comes in and orders a couple of drinks—I'd bet on beer for him; he's the no-frills type—and sits down to drink them quietly. He never makes trouble, although he might make a little noise, or flirt if he's a regular. Then when trouble really does come through the door, he makes my job a lot easier. It's nice to be able to beat the tar out of someone if they're harassing the help, but it's even nicer when I don't have to, because there happened to be a customer like Karsh in the bar. Yeah, he's a man; he's mature enough, responsible enough, and, although he'd kill me if he knew I thought it, he has a certain streak of nurturing in him, too. Look at the way he takes care of Marcy and Zoah. The guy should have had a family.

Do hard times make someone a man, maybe? Guile has had a hard time, I think, although I'll be damned if I know what it was. I know for certain what he drinks: he switches off between whiskey and brandy, both unmixed and usually innocent of ice or water either one. He drinks with a purpose: when he comes into the bar he sits at a table somewhere and doesn't make any noise, not even to order another drink. He just signals for another one, and nods when you ask if he wants the same thing as before. Whatever he is drinking, he takes it slowly but inexorably, so I know this problem of his is a lot bigger than he is ready to admit; for such a skinny guy he can really put away the booze. I know he's a man; there's something in those eyes that talks to you when you look into them. You have to be a man to wear a look like that. To me it reads like a warning, but he is good business, so I let him come back. I'd like to get to know him better, I guess, his dreams and interests and what makes him sit and drink whiskey like no one cares what time he gets back to wherever he's staying. Oh well—if wishes were horses….

Is it age? Serge is tricky to pin down. Sometimes I think he is on the threshold of manhood, other times that he is already over it. His drink would be something mixed; something sweet with a little bit of a bite. Bellbird, maybe. Yeah, that sounds about right. I guess since I can pin a drink on him I'd probably serve it to him if he came into the bar. He is the type of customer who comes in late at night, after the evening rush is over and things start to calm down. He sits in the back no matter how many people are there, sipping his drink and not making conversation. He doesn't invite anyone to the table and no one invites themselves; he's not that kind of person anymore, if he ever was. He comes into the bar half a dozen times a month, just often enough to be unpredictable. The barmaid finally works up her courage to hit on him and he stops coming. It isn't that he has an aversion to the ladies, just that he has moved on. He's a solitary man, and he has another solitary man to go home to someday.

Hell, maybe you've been in the business of bartending too long when you can tell so much about someone by the way he walks, and talks, and holds his head when he's thinking. When you don't stop to wonder if you're wrong, is it time to call it quits and throw in the towel?

Or am I just too full of fumes and vapors? The atmosphere behind this bar could get a girl high, there's been so much booze spilled on the floor. Instead of quitting for good, I think I'll just say—

"Last call!"

* * *

I know these are short, but I think that to add to them would be to take away from the elemental idea of the stories. Besides, there'll be approximately a ton of them when I am through. So sue me. 


	4. Leena

A/n: It has been forever since I updated, but I've been a long time without any way to go about it. Anyhow, back again--couldn't get rid of me _that_ easily, ha-ha. This one has het and slash allusions, but again, nothing above a little internal dialogue. If anyone who read the first few of these enjoyed them, please indulge herein once more.

**Paladin Dragoon:** Thank you as always for reviewing each and every one of these. I'm glad you approve so far :)  
**Capella A. Morningside:** Thank you--I do a lot of research, and it's excellent to have that acknowledged. As a matter of fact, yes, I intend to do at least most of them, tho I expect it will take me quite a while, as inspiration comes to me in little bits and images.  
**Yami Silverdramon:** I hope you are enjoying these others a bit more than the first...? I promise to get back to reviewing the things you write now that I am able to be online for more than just a few minutes a week. I hope you have not given up on me.

* * *

Leena

Disappointed:  
Beachcombing

Grey—the whole world was grey this evening, wrapped in fog almost as heavy and cold as the way I was feeling. As I made that association, even as sad and angry as I felt, I had to laugh at myself a little bit; it just sounded so dramatic and maudlin I couldn't make room for it. The fog coming in off the ocean did give everything a serious air, though; I swear I could _feel_ the grey against my skin as well as the cold. It might even rain tonight, or tomorrow. The fog had shrouded the village in silver, and the houses looked awfully far away, their lights piercing the gloom with imperfect, fuzzy blobs of orange and yellow. Usually weather like this would bring me inside; I loved the way a heavy fog could make the whole house feel cozy, and draw everyone together. Tonight I felt like I wanted to be alone, though, so I pulled my mother's shawl tighter around my shoulders, continuing across the sand near the tide line. I wasn't going anywhere, really, but I had some thinking to do, and the fogged-in beach had seemed the perfect place when I'd left my house.

There were shells in a few places, and I paused every so often to pick one up and look at it. For the last few minutes I hadn't been really looking at the ones I chose, just staring at them for a few seconds, then putting them back. Some of them had had sea creatures still in them, and these I always set back right away, feeling sort of guilty for disrupting them since I had already learned how shocking and frightening disruption could be. I was more compassionate than ever after—I still can't say "saving the world—" but anyway, after that business had been finished. More compassionate...and more open-minded, too. I put a few particularly pretty shells in my dress pocket, though, after I checked to make sure no one was home. It was okay for me to be happy, too, and seashells have always made me happy. They were one of the reasons I had chosen this place to come and think.

It was so unfair. After all that had happened, after I had learned how many other girls he had turned away, I had felt unchallenged. It had seemed that everything I'd always wanted could come true even after the strange events that had transpired. I could hardly believe we had been back almost a week now; standing in these familiar surroundings felt different in the aftermath of what we had come together to do, and I was still fully realizing that most people would never understand what had gone on...and that that might be for the best. That realization mixed weirdly with my reaction to the news I'd received today, making me feel like maybe I shouldn't try to tell anyone what he had decided, or how that had affected me, either. I chalked that up to the way my mind kept wandering; in a few days I would have everything sorted out in my head, and my flaky associations would be put to rest.

When he had come to my house this afternoon, his eyes full of some secret, I had felt my heart swell with anticipation and the beginnings of joy. I'd agreed to take a walk, even when he had refrained from choosing the place we had always chosen: Opassa Beach. I had followed him into the trees not far from the village, guessing he wanted somewhere we didn't usually meet because he had some uncommonly private news for me. In that, at least, I had been right. But I had also expected him to say that he felt like it was time to get more serious, or maybe even that he loved me. Before all of this happened, I know that he did love me--I _know_ that he did.

But he hadn't said anything like that. Instead, he had taken me far enough into the trees to be invisible from the village and told me it wouldn't work out, because he had found someone else. The way he talked about this other person just about made me fall apart. I guess all along I had almost _expected_ him to choose someone over me--someone like Miki, who is an amazing dancer, slim and pretty and a terrific person besides. For a while I thought he had it for Orlha, and I could have understood that, too; she's just this incredible person with a little bit of everything that makes someone worth knowing. I could have accepted being overlooked for a more beautiful girl, or one who was different in some other way he needed her to be different.

It was neither Orlha nor Miki; ironically, I was the one who ended up being friends with both of them. It had been no one I could have expected, but I'd guessed right away, anyway, just because of how unmistakable Serge's description had been: gentle, sweet, honorable, strong, thoughtful, beautiful in every way that's important to him.

I found myself wondering why he had chosen that person in particular. They were asking for nothing but heartbreak, but they must have known that. They must be thinking their chances of being happy together were pretty good, I guessed, but no matter what they did, there would be bridges they had to burn that might never be rebuilt. I knew I was one of those, and it made me feel a little sad to be nothing but ashes on the wind.

All I could say was that I hoped I hadn't burned him too badly as he set fire to what we used to have. After all, I'd never been bloody-minded, and I couldn't bring myself to actually hate either one of them. I was a little jealous, but I knew that would pass in time, especially if they turned out to make it after all. Besides, it wasn't as though everything we had was gone; he'd said that he still wanted to be best friends, that he would need friends like me more than ever, especially since I had always understood him so well, and had said I didn't blame him for choosing what would make him happy.

I didn't blame him, really—at least, I was trying not to. I thought he deserved to be happy just as much as I did, and in the meantime, I could find someone else. There were plenty of available boys, and I could teach myself to flirt. Miki would help me. Who could tell? In a few years, maybe I would even believe in it.

* * *

A/n: She was one of the characters I only got a so-so feel for, but this scene opened up in my mind kind of like an impressionist painting; I could see the village lights in the fog, the ocean receding into invisibility, and the lone girl walking on the beach with her head bent to study the shells that lay there. Her character reminded me strongly of one of my friends, who stays close with a couple of her exes. She is both a brave and a foolish soul for this. This story is for her. 


	5. Glenn

A/n: Thanks to everyone who reviewed.  
**Paladin Dragoon**, greetings for all bygone holidays! It was great to hear from you again, and thank you for reviewing. The imagery was my favorite part, too.  
**Yami Silverdramon**, thank you for coming back. I know what you mean about nosy people. Thank goodness I am something of an insomniac.:)  
**Rainy**, thank you for the constructive criticism, and for reviewing all of the stories. As for Glenn's story, here you go.

Warnings: Slash, profanity—nothing graphic. A little personal interpretation of character friendships, although I think these two are pretty much in character, and I have no trouble imagining them discussing philosophy and books on etiquette.

* * *

Glenn

Waylaid:  
Conversation

I had come here to be alone. I needed some time to think of the horrible day I was nearly finished with, to lick my wounds and comfort myself with the knowledge that this gauntlet I was running could not last forever. But when I arrived at the dock, I saw someone else standing there, staring out over the water. He was far too tall to be any woman I knew, but his hair tumbled in an unfettered flood past his hips, and he was willow-stick thin. His shirt was cuffed up to his elbows, the tail untucked over the trousers he was wearing. It was those trousers, and the boots on his feet, that tipped me off. Otherwise I would not have recognized him, long hair notwithstanding; he looked _that _different from the person I saw in daylight.

"Good evening," he greeted me without turning around. "This dock is hardly private, as I am sure you know. Please do not let my presence deter you from your reverie; the sound of your tread suggests you need it very badly, indeed."

I went to stand next to him, though I kept some distance between us out of respect for his desire for space. "You're right," I said, "I do need it, but are you sure _you_ want to stand next to _me_?" I could not keep a note of sarcasm and even bitterness out of my voice. Knowing he would not take offense, I let those feelings out without reserve for the first time all day.

His soft laugh contained something like sympathy. "Why would I not?" he asked, turning to look at me. With something like a mild shock, I realized he was for once not wearing his ever-present mask. "Are you really worried that your confession has changed my opinion of you?" He sounded honestly surprised.

"Well, yes," I said, looking down and scuffing the dock planks with the toe of one boot.

He shook his head. "Let me clear a few things with you, my friend. First off, I have guessed that you were harboring a secret for some time now. It has been at least three months since you began exhibiting a need for secrecy; I have been preoccupied myself of late, so I will officially estimate the number at four months. How close am I to the mark?" His expression was impassive as always, but I could still sense that air of almost..._smugness_ he always radiates when he knows he is being particularly incisive.

"Almost right on," I admitted, trying not to resent his observational skills.

"Secondly, I carry darker secrets than that which you confessed." His eyes did not drop—he walked a fine wire in which illusion was often his best protection, and it would run counter to everything he believed in to exhibit any such obvious tell as that—but they did become occluded. After illusion, his best protection was an unbreakable shield of inscrutability; I knew him well enough to know that he at least believed it was.

"What? What does that have to do—?" His tiny admission was more acknowledgment of his own humanity than I had ever before received from him, and it sent me into brief contemplation while I assimilated the intent. Meanwhile, he pointedly directed his gaze out over the water, neither speaking nor looking at me. I knew that he wasn't ignoring me, but rather giving me a moment's privacy while I composed what I wanted to say next. I was grateful to him for his characteristic little show of respect and tact, for I knew that it could just as easily have been otherwise: I have been the subject of his attention when he decides to press an intellectual issue during our discussions about books and philosophy, and I know that he is both swift and sharp. I had no desire to come under his intense scrutiny in my current condition.

When I didn't speak for almost a minute, he cleared his throat. "I—thirdly, I have known you since before you made the confession which is now turning your former friends against you in painful numbers, and we have been friends since shortly after we met. I was initially drawn to you as a friend because you are smart, genuine and _loyal_. I would be a poor friend indeed to repay your loyalty by backstabbing you over something I already suspected, would I not?"

"I-you-" I stuttered, but he cut me off, halting me with a single upheld palm. I could not help but notice a fresh cut, short but wicked, bisecting the life line.

"Besides," he continued blithely, "for all that I have been in this existence for only a handful of years, I have seen enough so that my perspective is still sufficiently wide to include you in all your myriad glory. In other words, I am not fazed by your secret."

I barely listened to him, hung up as I was on the previous moment's insinuation. "You knew?" I asked lamely.

His laugh was gentle. "No, I said I suspected. The distinction may at times be fine, but it does exist. It was no surprise to me when you confessed, however." He turned his head to regard me once more, his expression serious and sincere. "Furthermore, for what it is worth, I approve of your choice." His eyebrow lifted slightly. "What will you do next? Not the both of you—that is your business, and at the risk of sounding rude, I do not really care to know—but just you. Specifically, I wonder what you will do about your detractors; do you intend to rebut, or will you choose to ignore their slander?"

I hesitated. "Wait a moment," I said, resisting a sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh, "you are getting ahead of me. Let me first thank you for your support; call me crazy, but I have received little enough of it these past few days to be grateful for what I get. You are a true friend, and I thank you for brightening my day." I took a deep breath. "As for what I intend to do, I intend to go about my business as usual. I could not live with myself if I got into a mud slinging contest, and that is exactly what it would turn into if I tried to rebut, regardless of how civil and logical I was."

He nodded his agreement. "Especially the Devas," he said, curling the end of the sentence into a question.

"Well, Lord Viper said some of the same things you did about me being the same person as before, and he would not let me leave the Dragoons just because of it. In a way I was glad he forbade me, because that means he still likes me in spite of this. Karsh pled a need for time to consider all the factors before deciding what to think, and Zoah has not said a single thing to me about it yet, though he is no more hostile than usual. Marcy...is a child, and she says the things she hears. It is not their reactions I am hurt by. In fact, I have been pleasantly surprised so far." I took a deep breath. "It is more—you know—_Dario_." For a moment I could not finish the sentence around the lump welling up in my throat. "His immediate condemnation hurt the most."

"Why?" The word snapped from his tongue with a report like a breaking stick. "Why should you care what he thinks? Because he is your brother? Because he represents authority, and therefore has a greater right to his opinion than you to yours?" His posture became subtly aggressive, and his voice dropped to an acerbic hiss: "_Bullshit_."

I stared at him, quelling the immediate offense and anger I felt at his words. He had never spoken to me like this before, not even in the most heated of our moral and philosophical discussions. The anger and frustrated contempt I heard in his tone were real, and that frightened me enough to stay my tongue for a few seconds.

He leaned in slightly. "To give into him in this, to let him hurt you and make you ashamed of who you are, cheapens you; do you not see that? His hold over you is limited to what you let him have, but as long as you keep letting him have power over you, he will keep using it to put pressure on you. You have worked hard to get where you are; if you let him take away this opportunity, you will spend the rest of your short, miserable life regretting it. If you give in now, it will be a character suicide."

"I cannot ignore him," I cried, resisting the urge to cover my ears, or leave the dock.

He became the sarcastic pedant, putting a hand on one narrow hip and lifting his lips into a characteristic smirk. "Well, at least you are showing some sense. Of course you cannot ignore him; he would chew you up with accusations of weakness, and challenge your every step." Stepping away, putting distance between himself and me, he spoke in a softer tone, his body language shifting to a more gentle demeanor: "I have empathy for you, really I do: you are swimming in dangerous waters, and you have a long trip ahead of you. But such is life." He put his hands in his pockets, his thin shoulders hunched against some cold wind I could not feel, and walked past me down the dock, heading in the direction of the street. I did not watch him go, and I did not waste my time calling after him; he had disclosed all of the wisdom he intended to, and now he meant to leave before being caught up in anything sticky. For my own part, I did what I had always done: enjoyed his company when it was offered, but respected his preference for solitude. Never did I begrudge him his cutting opinions or cryptic goodbyes.

After he had gone about ten feet, he stopped, and, without turning around, imparted some final advice: "Whatever happens, you may take my word on this: sooner or later life will turn to kicking someone else for a while. I have seen trouble come and go many, many times, and I know that it always does both." He started to go again, hesitated, cursed. "I have an address in Porre," he finally murmured, and gave it. "Send me a letter."

"Thank you," I said, trying not to sound surprised.

* * *

The next day, I went in to the manor house to help with the reconstruction. I did not confront anyone, but neither did I back down. Instead, I held my head high, and acted as if the change I now hewed to was nothing out of the ordinary, though I was so self-conscious it was difficult. The looks I got from the Devas were by and large strange ones, but Karsh and Zoah played along with my new attitude, Karsh looking repeatedly to the General as if for instruction or reassurance. The advice I had been given last night stayed with me, and I began painstakingly to build around it.

A week later, Dario and I had a shouting match, and Karsh stuck up for me. I wrote Guile a letter at his house in Porre, thanking him for the advice he had given me. In return, he sent me a bottle of expensive whiskey. I was not able to determine the significance of that gesture no matter how hard I tried: the note he included with it read simply, "_Drink the last one for me_."

I thought I saw him once, years later, at a carnival. He did not look as though he had been kicked lately, but then, with him it always was hard to tell.


	6. Norris

A/n: Nothing offensive in this one whatsoever, except a bit of alcohol and some mild profanity.

Thank you to **TheDonutMistress**, whose kind words motivated me to accede to her request. I don't know if it's what you had in mind, but here you are.

* * *

Norris

Pensive:  
Tropics

It is pouring rain down out there...I can hear it even with the windows shuttered. They hardly bother with glass in the windows this far south, I've noticed, but they seem to be a good deal bigger on curtains and screens. To be fair, I suppose that if I had lived here all my life, I, too, would be quicker to screen a window than to close it; a closed window keeps insects out, but keeps heat in, while a drape or sheer provides the best of both worlds. Well, tonight I am glad I have a window with shutters, because if I didn't, my room would be a terrible mess. I have simply never seen a storm keep up this degree of wind and rain for an entire night. It is no wonder the people here are so swift to place their fealty with gods of nature. The wonder to me is that they have not all washed away, or moved to a better clime. My word.

I am observant—I feel safe in saying so, since I was chosen for this covert task in El Nido—but things are so different here that gathering information about these people _began_ as a difficult job, and has improved only a little. For a start, the rhythms of thought and action in this part of the world are really odd: in a situation where at home it would be perfectly safe to turn my back, I cannot dare to do so here, because these people move and act and think differently, and what I think is a safe, stable situation can turn out to be something else entirely. My first impression of this area was of how open the people were here compared to those back in Porre, but the more I live among them, the more I realize that their lives are actually rich with a certain kind of complexity that defies full comprehension.

For example, the other night I was invited to a social function in celebration of the progress on the reconstruction of Viper Manor, to be hosted on the grounds of same. I arrived in somewhat formal dinner dress, prepared to make polite conversation and take a few drinks with some of the people I have come to regard as equals (and even, in a few cases, friends). The first floor of the manor is now completed, which was the reason for the celebration, and so I logically assumed that the party would be inside. What I found upon arrival was a rather informal outdoor affair with many people dancing and working on getting drunk before it even got properly dark. I was correct, however, in my assumption that the crowd was chiefly composed of people I knew.

Overdressed and embarrassed, I nevertheless submitted to Karsh's insistence that I "stick around and just have some fun before it all gets up or falls down." I even, common sense forfend, had a drink with him. It isn't that we do not get along; we've worked past the stage where we loathe the sight of one another. I merely thought I knew where I stood with him diplomatically, and I thought our cautious relationship would stand a glass or two of the fruit juice concoction that was being passed around. The fact that he did not just ignore, but, in fact, _refused_ to have any of what I was drinking did cross my mind, but I supposed in a vague way that he must prefer beer because of his oft-repeated enthusiasm for "getting a buzz-on" at all sorts of functions. I never for a moment imagined that he might be avoiding it for the opposite reason.

I swear to this moment that I tasted no alcohol in what I was drinking. I swear that I saw no secret smile upon his lips as he watched me, or any indication that he knew I was getting drunk without me being aware of that fact myself. But I do know that when I tried to rise from the patch of grass where we were sitting, and go somewhere to do...something...I fell over, and he was not only not surprised, but he also laughed quite a lot. As of right now he still laughs every time he looks at me; I am beginning to wonder when, or if, he will ever stop.

That is what I mean when I say they do things differently here. At home I have to watch for those who seek to slander me, or undermine my credibility. Here I have to remember to ask what is in the things I drink, and what kinds of bugs I have to be on the lookout for. There are times when I look into their open, smiling faces and wonder if they are deliberately leaving me out of the loop in order to watch me blunder time and time again; I am sure that Karsh figured out what was happening at that party before I did, and that he did let me do myself in just for the pleasure of watching me fall on my dignified ass. But I think that, by and large, they are basically well-meaning, even the Devas.

It is that kind of complexity which does in my foreign sensibilities. They know what I was doing here at the beginning, but they still tolerate me; that tolerance is something too genial to be ambivalence, but too relaxed to be anything else, and altogether a source of consternation. It is like they don't care what Porre intends to do, don't care that even after that business with the gods and FATE I still represent—well, take regular pay from—an enemy. The longer I remain here, the more they seem to be fitting me into their lives, just as if I were not a front-runner for a very large, very serious threat. That baffles me, and makes me wonder if they realize just how close I am to taking off my uniform and trading it for a fishing pole. I try to hide that half-formed desire, but I think sometimes it shows. These people have an addictive way of life...and they know it.

I think perhaps that is why they don't worry about me: they don't think I will ever be going back to Porre. They think that if I absorb enough of their strange drinks and casual friendliness, I will not leave when the tide allows me to return home. They are, perhaps, relying upon me to fall in love with one of the many beautiful young women here, or to form just one friendship too many. Most subtly, they never say anything of the topic, not even so much as a tease about "going native," though I've been caught asking about housing opportunities in Termina, and I always get the impression that they see right through my flimsy excuse of looking into future vacation homes.

Maybe they are right; maybe I will take one too many breaths of this flower-scented air, attend one too many of their gatherings, learn to sing one too many of their songs. The way they talk and laugh and think might insinuate itself into my blood sufficiently by the time spring rolls around to convince me to stay, and at least I would know that I was not the only person from Porre to have been drawn in by El Nido's magic. There, I've said it: this is a magical part of the world, and damned if it doesn't feel to me that anything is possible...even deserting. My patriot's soul insists that there is no way I could ever _really_ give up kin and country, but in the meantime, another, smaller part of my soul is already dancing to the unique rhythms that hover in the very air here. The patriot is stronger for now.

But spring, when the tide changes, is months away.

* * *

A/n: Norris gone troppo. I realize how unlikely it is that he and Karsh would ever sit down to have a drink together unless one or the other of them had an ulterior motive, but it was easy to imagine Karsh slipping straight-laced Norris something as alcoholic as it is tasty...and laughing his ass off when it bit in. 


	7. Zoah

A/n: Hi again. It's been a long time, I know. Thanks to **TheDonutMistress **and **Ruainin Teilene**, who reviewed the last chapter. Your comments, as always, are greatly appreciated.

No warnings precede this chapter; there's no profanity, nothing graphic, nothing even remotely offensive. Enjoy.

* * *

Zoah

Baffled:  
Advice

Marcy found me out on the balcony where Luccia had used to keep her NeoFio. I like it there--the breeze seems to smell especially nice, and it's peaceful--and the others have figured that out by now. Even standing with my back to the manor, looking out over the water, I heard her come down the hall and open the door, and knew right away it was she: only Marcy treads with a young girl's carefree lightness...and slams a door open with Karsh's brand of loud authority. Once she emerged onto the balcony, she slowed, took a couple of shuffling steps toward me, and paused to drag her fingers through the pool, which is something she often does when she feels pensive. Then she walked the rest of the way across the balcony, and stood next to me. During all this I remained where I was, giving her the first move.

Characteristically, she wasted no time in taking it. "You're not wearing your helmet," she said.

"I know." I looked down, and briefly caught a glimpse of what looked like a ladybug on the top of her blonde head before she tilted her face up to meet my gaze, making sure I couldn't possibly miss it when she rolled her eyes derisively at me.

"Well, duh." Then she got quiet again, scuffing her shoe on the balcony. Finally, she blurted: "Like, what's going on?"

I knelt on the balcony beside her to better make eye contact with her. "What do you mean?" I had a good idea of what she was talking about, but I know that when someone seeks your advice it's usually best to let _them_ tell _you_ what the problem is, even if you are fairly certain you can guess ahead of them.

It was a good thing I did let her talk, because she threw a surprise into me. "Is Lady Riddel going to, like, _marry_ that other Dario?"

I hesitated a second before finally admitting: "I don't know, Marcy. Why do you ask?"

"Well, Dario and Lady Riddel were, like, in love, right?" Marcy asked me earnestly. "They were going to be married and everything?"

"Ye-es." My hesitation dragged the word into two parts. Marcy often comes to me for advice, but I found myself wishing that this time she had chosen someone else. Even Karsh would have been better equipped to answer this, I felt. "But I don't know that they will decide to marry," I heard myself say.

"Well, why not?" Her brow wrinkled, her lips pursing into a thoughtful expression.

"They're different people now than they were when they agreed to marry. Sir Dario has lost a lot of his memories, and will be a long time in getting them back. There is a chance that he will never regain all of them." I glanced through the balcony rails at the water. "And Lady Riddel...has had years to grow into an understanding of life without him."

"But..." she paused, staring down. Scuffing her foot on the balcony floor again, she caught her toe on a loose pebble. She bent and picked it up. Rolling it around in her fingers, she closed it in her small fist like a talisman. "But..." she said a second time, and fell silent once more. Finally she opened her hand and looked at the pebble there. She studied it for many seconds before letting it fall from her fingers. "Couldn't they meet all over again?" she asked. "Just like they never knew each other or anything? Just—" her foot swept over the balcony floor in a swift, full-force kick, describing an arc. Her heel caught the pebble and sent it flying; I heard it ricochet off of one of the upright rails and whiz, skittering, back toward NeoFio's pool. It struck the pool's edge and came to rest with a soft report against my boot heel. "Restart?"

I blinked, taken a little aback; the "clean sweep" significance of her gesture wasn't lost on me, but I was surprised by her sudden violence, and wondered whether I had missed something. "Maybe," I said. "They've already begun to get reacquainted with each other, and since they used to have a lot in common, that's probably still at least a little true. Maybe, after getting to know each other as well as before, they'll eventually fall in love again, and marry after all." I glanced over to gauge her reaction, but she was staring down at the balcony floor with a neutral expression. I put a hand on her shoulder. "Is something about it bothering you, Marcy? Remember, Karsh is a friend of theirs, too—they all three grew up together. Just like us, Karsh wants the best for Lady Riddel, so he wouldn't let anything harm her."

"No, it's not that," she said, shaking her head. The ladybug, at last tested beyond endurance by this latest earthquake, took off for more stable pastures. Marcy appeared not to notice the insect, and I didn't bring it to her attention. She was absorbed in her private thoughts.

I waited.

She sighed. "Will it work? Will they be together again?" She locked gazes with me, her blue eyes sharp and appraising. "What do you _really_ think, Zoah?"

It was my turn to stare at the balcony floor for a while, thinking. "I think Lady Riddel has been through a lot—so have we all," I said carefully. "Time, and only time, will tell. But I think that their time for love is over. They'll be friends again, of that I'm sure, but love..." I shook my head. "Years have a way of killing things like that."

She nodded. "Just wondered." Impulsively, she reached over and hugged me. "Thanks, Zoah," she said cheerfully. "I can always count on you to tell me what Karsh won't." Laughing, she skipped off, heading back down the hallway without waiting to see if I would take the bait. I heard her get into the elevator, and thence go down.

Accustomed to her games, I chose not to pursue her, but I did decide I would ask Karsh later on if she had approached him for information. For now, I couldn't help but wonder what she had really been asking. She was a little girl, so of course she had an interest in romance and all its attendant thrills. But that violent kick, sweeping away the gathered dust and leaves, bothered me still; I kept hearing that pebble ricochet off of the balcony upright, kept feeling it strike the back of my boot. That kind of behavior didn't match with questions about Lady Riddel's possible romantic future. Then there was the way she had hugged me before leaving, and tried to draw me into a game of "what Karsh said." Her attempt had been lame to say the least—usually she had much better ammunition than that. She must have been trying to take my mind off of something, and I bet myself that that sweeping kick was it. She had been using questions about Lady Riddel to probe into something else, something she was emotionally involved in, and somehow in her mind that kick had exposed her, revealing something.

But what?

* * *

A/n: What, indeed. 


	8. Karsh

A/n: Thanks to new reviewers **iloveit**, **Fireseal FFXI**,and **Rayni**, and special thanks to return reviewers **TheDonutMistress**, **Paladin Dragoon**, and **Ruainin Teilene**. Your comments are most welcome, and your compliments gratefully accepted.

Warnings for this chapter: More serious profanity than previous chapters, and more of it, though still not egregious amounts. It wanted to come out in half-assed stream of consciousness, so I let it.

* * *

Karsh

Flustered:  
Secret

I gotta admit, I'm a little confused by the whole thing. I understand what's going on—I mean, I didn't exactly fall off the turnip cart yesterday—but I'm not sure what I think. So much has happened that now I'm not sure how I feel about anything anymore. This has been one hell of a landmark year, and obviously I ain't the only one to have noticed that. Everyone was rattled hard by that Lavos business, and even after the real impact is over we're all still up in the air, just now starting to come to ground one by one. I thought Serge was immune to that rattle, and for a long time I envied him that. I had this mental picture of him as the only one in the blast site who was still standing—one hand holding down his bandanna, and the other squeezing the shaft of that weapon, you know? But then he dropped a big bomb, and now I feel different. Now I think maybe he suffered the worst of us all by keeping his feet because he couldn't do otherwise. Sand in his craw, as my ma would say.

Am I too late? After all this time I've spent thinking about what I did, all those wishes that I had the guts to confess to her, did I get my chance just in time to have it taken away? I guess if that's so, it's only what I deserve, eh? Now she knows everything, the whole stupid, sorry fucking tale, and if she isn't treating me any differently than she ever did, well, maybe I should just take that and be grateful she doesn't hate me. I guess I'd be stupid to try and push it, but there's a part of me wondering what would happen, just what would she do...if I did push her a little? What if I brought it up to her, made her face it the way I was made to do? Would that make me a hypocrite? I've had about all I can stand of being a hypocrite, so I'd like to leave that part of my life in the dust and make a clean start. Listen to me, I sound like Marcy. Hah.

It took those two kids a lot of guts to do what they did. Glenn's sure got a chin on him some time in the past year, hasn't he? When did that happen, I wonder? Probably one of those times when I wasn't looking...gods know there have been plenty of them. I know, I know, another fault. Well, since I copped to murder, I guess I can cop to being a shitty surrogate, too. Where have I ever been when he needed me, and all that maudlin garbage. Me aside, he's surely gotten an education about the facts of life from someone, and they did a pretty good job. He's a little grim, maybe, but he's learned how to hold up his head, for sure. It makes me so damned proud that I don't even really mind that he's doing it over Serge. After all, the General seems to have given 'em the nod. Surely sharp minds with ample experience make the best decisions. Besides, it ain't my choice to make, now is it? And if ever a man walked who had learned that lesson, that's me. If I ever forget it, may I be taught it again, double-strength.

So if a couple of nice young kids with more sand than experience between them can make that kind of decision, and stick to it with everyone shouting them down, I suppose I ought to be able to work myself into matching that level, especially since there ain't anyone yelling at me but me. I maybe ought to know better by now, but I've come to think that there's a time and a place for recklessness, just like everything else. I'm not old, fat, or mean, and I can generally catch onto an idea when someone runs it by me, so what's not to like, right? Ha! Maybe the time has come to be like Glenn, instead of looking to see if he's emulating me. Maybe it's time to take a stand and stick by it whatever happens...time to have a serious talk with Riddel. If she blows me off, well, that's that. But I can't very well sit around wondering until everything goes sour, and all my chances evaporate around me. I don't want to go back down that street.

What must it have been like for Glenn, practically raised around the Dragoons, to make himself confront what he was feeling? I wonder how long he's been hiding that part of himself from everyone, and what it's cost him. Have there been things he wanted or even needed to talk about, but felt like he couldn't because of that? I thought he was sort of circumspect, but then he always was a private kid, not much of one to bring up anything sticky or delicate. It had entered my head that he might be responsible enough to just wait until the right sort of girl came along, and not sow a lot of wild oats. But it never occurred to me that he might be carrying around something even heavier than responsibility. Now I wonder what other sorts of things he's kept hidden about himself. That kid has will power, I'll give him that.

The trouble with that idea is, she's being nice to avoid me and I know it, because that's the way she is. Is she avoiding me because she doesn't want to talk about Dario, though, or is she avoiding me because she's let herself get too hidebound to consider whatever I might offer? If what I've put between us makes her uncomfortable, do I really have the right to ask her to look closely at it, since I couldn't do the same myself until circumstances forced me? I feel like I owe her a more complete explanation, and maybe a chance to pass judgment on me, because I know she won't solicit an explanation on her own no matter how badly she wants to know, and she'd be more likely to tell a dirty joke than make a firm public judgment of something. "Permanent poise," Dario called it once.

* * *

A/n: I don't know how I feel about this one. May take it down and fix it up some more later, but if I don't set it free tonight I'll end up obsessing over it until I delete it in disgust. 


	9. Marcy

A/n: Thank you to **The Donut Mistress** and **Paladin Dragoon**. Your continued reviews motivate me to keep adding chapters.

Again, no content warnings.

* * *

Marcy

Weird:  
Brother

Dear Diary,

I don't know what I'm supposed to do about Nikki. Having him around is weird. I kinda want to know more about him, cause he's my brother, but also because he's, like, way different than anybody else I've ever met, and I'm curious to know why he dresses and acts like that. But at the same time, there's part of me that still doesn't want him around, you know? Everything will be different if I, like, "let him in." Those are Zoah's words, "let him in." Like I've got ahold of some doorknob or something! Whatever. Nikki just does all this stuff that I don't understand. Like the other day, when he came all the way to the manor to tell me something I would have found out anyway.

* * *

I saw him come over even though I was stretching. I hoped he would talk to me so that I could totally blow him off, but he didn't. He just, like, stood there about fifteen feet away and waited. Tch—stupid. I made him wait for, like, ten minutes. I started my stretching routine _all over again_, hoping he'd get bored. But it didn't work; he sat down on the grass and whistled a tune in time to my stretching rhythm.

That did it. I stopped and went over, flopping down in the grass a little ways away from him. "What are you doing here?" I asked, looking over at him. For a change he was dressed in something _other_ than those weird getups he wears on stage. He didn't look normal, exactly, but at least the urge to, like, look around and make sure no one else saw me with him wasn't as strong as usual. He didn't stand out quite as much is what it was, I guess.

"Hi, Marcy," he said. "I just got back from Marbule, and I wanted to swing by and see you. How've you been?"

I saw an ant on the grass, and put my finger in front of it to see if it would climb on. "I'm okay. It's kinda boring, because I can't help with the rebuilding that much, you know? But it's okay, 'cause the General gives me, like, important missions and stuff to do for them."

"Cool—are you allowed to tell me, or is it secret?"

It drives me a little crazy, the way he, like, tries to be so nice all the time. It'd be a lot easier if he didn't. I shrugged. "Sure. I, like, carry messages, and help Karsh supervise lumber deliveries, and stuff." The ant poked my finger with its little legs for a minute, and then turned around and went back down the blade of grass to the dirt. I flicked the piece of grass with my fingernail, but the ant hung on. Whatever. Stupid bugs...I hate em anyway.

It got quiet for a minute. We both stared down at the grass, peeking at each other out of the corners of our eyes. I wondered if he felt as dumb as I did.

"I brought you something," he said.

I looked over at him. "Huh?"

He smiled at me. "I had it delivered to your room in the manor; I wanted it to be a surprise for you this evening, but I couldn't make myself wait, so I came to tell you." He ducked his head like he was a little embarrassed. "I found it on Marbule, and thought of you right away. I hope you like it." He stood up, brushing dirt off of his butt.

"What is it?" I asked, hopping up. A present? For what? It wasn't, like, my birthday or anything. There was nothing going on, not even like when we had that party for finishing the first floor of the manor. Nothing. See what I mean? He's weird.

He shook his head. "You'll see," he said. "I'm docked in Termina, so if you want to come over tonight, I'll buy you dinner. Unless you're busy..." he looked away, toward the water, and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"I-I can't tonight," I said, hoping I hadn't said it too fast. He's, like, way too good at telling what I really mean to say.

"Oh." He nodded, turning back to me. "Okay. No problem." And I could tell that he _did_ know what I'd really meant to say.

I felt sort of bad, but I didn't say anything else. Sometimes I wish I was more like Lady Riddel; she always knows the right thing to tell anybody.

"I guess that's it," he shrugged. "I'll talk to you later, Marcy, okay?" Now he was the one staring at the ground. I wondered if he could see the ants from that high up. I mean, how tall do you have to be before you can't see them without sitting or squatting down? I guessed Zoah would know as well as anyone else. I should ask him later.

"Sure, Nikki. Thanks for the—whatever it is." How do you learn to be good at this? Did Lady Riddel, like, take classes or something?

He laughed, but not, like, at me. It wasn't mean or anything; actually, it kind of sounded like he might hug me if I'd let him. "You're welcome. I hope you like it."

"You already said that." I pointed out, crossing my arms.

He leaned his weight back on one leg and crossed his arms over his chest, and I knew I'd finally said something he couldn't brush off. "So?" He stared at me for a second with one eyebrow raised. "Saying it twice doesn't undo it." He _still_ didn't sound mad, though. He's gotta be, like, even more patient than Lady Riddel.

"Whatever." I didn't see what that had to do with anything, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

"Good night, Marcy." He headed off over the grounds, stuffing his hands in his pockets and whistling.

* * *

It was a summer dress. The skirt went almost all the way down to my ankles, but the top part was sleeveless. The whole dress was made out of some kind of soft, shiny blue stuff, like linen but lighter, and there was a veil of lace—actual lace, embroidered with seashells and flowers—over the skirt. It was really pretty, and looked like it must have cost a lot. I know lace is expensive, because even Lady Riddel only has, like, a couple of dresses with it on them, and one veil for special occasions. I tried it on right away; it fit almost just right, except it was a little bit loose under the arms. The color went with my hair really well, and I noticed in the mirror that it was almost the same blue as my eyes.

I felt pretty in it.

* * *

I went back to the ship and knocked on Nikki's door. I wondered if he was by himself.

When he opened the door I saw that he was alone. "Hey, Marcy! Come on in. I'm glad you made it after all." He smiled at me, telling me he wasn't going to make a big deal about the lie I'd told him earlier. Holding the door open, he stepped aside so I could come in, and so I did. "Have a seat anywhere." He gestured around the room. "I was just killing time until I felt like eating something."

The inside of his cabin looked cluttered, but I could see that the room was actually pretty organized; all his clothes and props and stuff were sorted and put away, and his bed was even sorta made. "So, um...I just wanted to, like, talk to you about something." I said without sitting down. "I don't think I better stay too long, though."

"Oh, I see." He shrugged. "Want a drink or something? I don't have a lot here, but I'm sure I can find something."

I shook my head. "No, thanks. I really do have to hurry; I didn't tell anyone where I went." I felt my eyes falling to the floor, and made them look back up at him. "I wanted to say thanks for the dress first."

He smiled again, even brighter than when he'd answered the door a minute ago. "You _did_ like it!"

"Yeah." I smiled back at him. "It was pretty: I really like that color. It fit, too." I kicked at the floor a little bit. "I, uh...I haven't—I don't—I'm sorry." It didn't sound very loud, and it felt stupid coming out of my mouth, but I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I just stood there.

"What do you mean?" He rocked back on his heels and frowned.

I flicked my hand at him. "Tch. There you go, being nice again. You can't be that _stupid_." I took a deep breath. "Look, you don't have to—I know you feel like you should, like, be around. But we've, like, barely even met." I tossed my hands up in the air. "I don't even know what I mean."

He sat down on the floor, pulling his knees up under his chin. "Marcy...I know it's been a long time, and we don't really know each other, but you're my sister. For me, that's stronger than any case of cold feet. I _want_ to know all about you, I always have, and I can't let being afraid to put myself out there stop me." He stopped, and stared at his feet for a second. "I am scared, you know."

"What?" I stepped a little closer. "Why?" I had _never_ heard _any_ guy admit to being scared. Even Glenn.

"I've been alone for a long time, and I'm..._used_ to being by myself. Having someone close by again, someone from my family, freaks me out, because I can't just be the same with them as with everyone else. It's one thing to perform in front of a bunch of people...another thing to let _one person_ see what's really under the performer part. It's easy to make gestures that don't mean anything...but hard to really reach out to someone. Do you see what I'm saying?"

"You're afraid you'll have to show me who you really are?" I frowned. "I don't get it. What, are you afraid I'll, like, turn on you?"

He tilted his head to one side. "I don't know. Will you?"

For once I didn't say anything right away. I was thinking about him being afraid to let someone else under the "performer part," and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I _did_ sort of get it...because I kind of felt the same way. I wasn't a performer, but I was still sorta scared to let him get too close to me. It was kind of embarrassing; I mean, I'd been thinking all this time that he was weak, but really he was the only one with the guts to stick out his neck.

"I guess not," I said.

"So let's give it a shot, what do you think?" He rested his chin on one knee, raising that eyebrow again. "We'd be the only ones who knew about it, so there'd be no risk of humiliation, since there's no benefit in spreading rumors about each other around. Right?"

I grinned at him. "Is that a question?"

He burst out laughing. "No! It's 'I won't tell if _you_ don't.' That way if it doesn't work, we're the only ones who ever have to talk about it. That makes it easier on you...chicken."

I hit him on the arm. "No way! I'm no chicken."

"Right," he rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

* * *

_Chicken_. See what I mean, Diary? He's such a weirdo. I'm still not sure I want him around all the time; I mean, he _does_ dress and act weird, and girls follow him everywhere. Besides, I still don't really know him, and it's gonna take forever to get acquainted. But at the same time I do kind of want to know him, cause he has, like, all these memories of being a family and stuff, so maybe he'll tell me about them. Besides, he goes places all the time, so we wouldn't be together every minute. I'll think about it.

P.S. Zoah says yes, he can see the ants if he looks close.

* * *

A/n: Yes, I know this one isn't up to snuff grammatically. It's supposed to be that way. 


	10. Riddel

A/n: Thanks to all those who reviewed. **FiresealFFXI**, **Paladin Dragoon**, **TheDonutMistress**, **Rayni** and **Yami Silverdramon**. Thanks for putting up with the glacial progress on these vignettes, and thanks for all the suggestions.

Oh, and someone asked about the ants in Marcy's chapter. That..._macht nichts_. It's just a detail.

For (I believe) the third or fourth time now, there are no content warnings in this chapter. No profanity, no booze, nothing. Enjoy.

* * *

Riddel

Thoughtful:  
Catharsis

I am watching the sun come up from the cliffs this morning, sipping a cup of tea I have taken from the breakfast fire. The tea is terrible—it has been steeping _at least_ fifteen minutes—but the addition of milk cuts the bitterness enough to make it bearable. Anyway, if I want to be seen as a part of the reconstruction team, the least I can do is refrain from complaining about trivialities. There is enough of a chill in the air this morning to make me glad Daddy pressed his coat upon me as I left the makeshift mess tent on the manor's front lawn; he is such a gentleman, and when a gentleman offers you his coat to ward off the chill, you accept with gratitude even if it does not complement your dress according to this season's fashion dictates. When one is a lady, the loan of the right man's coat is _always_ in fashion.

This time of day is my favorite. I love to watch the sun come up; ever since my girlhood I have been enchanted by the way the first light seems to creep across the land and sky like a transparent golden wall. Even now my imagination gives me the same image every morning as it did when I was still in pigtails: as the light spreads from horizon to horizon, I inevitably imagine it flowing over me, covering me over like a warm, life-giving veil. Funnily enough, though it is only a treasured mental image I do not feel energized in the morning unless I have completed this ritual. The weather does not always cooperate with my observance of the sunrise, but this morning it is a treat: the new day has washed every last trace of the past night from me, even the stubborn bits lurking in my eyes, ears, and the corners of my mouth. It's done nothing for the cobwebs still inside my mind, but I hardly mind; in fact, I do not think I wish to meet the light that could wash away my thoughts, no matter how dim or strange they may be.

Besides the beauty of nature, this part of my morning provides me with something else I value: time to think. Of course I have plenty to think about these days, but today I find my thoughts occupied with Karsh. In the privacy of my inner thoughts I am empathetic for the way things have turned out for him. I noticed his affection for me years ago, but I admit that I allowed my youthful perception of him to continue into adulthood, even after Dario's death; I never thought of him as anything but a friend. Though it showcases a shameful complacence, there is another painful truth I must confront. Specifically, I have been lazy about my feelings for him, and taken him for granted; I have chosen not to notice what other, braver women would have named as signs he was more than usually attracted; and I have taken the easy path, thus turning a perfectly good friendship into what has been essentially a lie.

What is more, I have encouraged—if not forced—him into that same behavior with my relentless façade of civility and politeness. Karsh is many things: loyal, courageous, canny, big-hearted. But he is also a man caught up in the socially accepted behaviors of masculinity, so he hides his emotions to keep from appearing "weak." Of course I am no better; I also hide my emotions, out of a weak need to be perceived as impassive, elegant and refined...behaviors I am careful to uphold, lest my public image be spoiled. As a result of our mutual consternation, we have been like two children sheltering in a graveyard after dark: each of us has long known about the presence of the other, yet we have been too afraid of the possibility of ghosts to step out from our hiding places and take comfort from our shared fears. Karsh was brought up to respect women, so when I established that polite, civil boundary he accepted it...out of that (misguided) respect. Therefore I accept at least part of the culpability for the covert, stifled mess our friendship has become; furthermore, I do not blame him for hiding himself from me. How could I?

He wants to apologize, perhaps for losing control over his emotions—and therefore over the Masamune—or perhaps simply for hiding the truth from me for so long. I can tell this by his sudden embarrassed unwillingness to maintain eye contact with me, and the guilt in his expression when he does look into my eyes. Because of this, I have given the matter serious thought, and I believe I have a good mental draft of the words I want to say to him. Also, I do not think it would be entirely appropriate to sit idly by and wait for him to find the right opportunity to approach me, so instead I shall _create _an opportunity, and then I will take it upon myself to make the approach. After all, since circumstances have forced him to confess his feelings for me in front of all the people who are important to him, it would be only in the interest of fairness for me to do the same. If nothing else, we will be able to be friends again.

* * *

A/n: This one was a pretty small bead, I know, but the original version took me three days to type out, and was almost four pages of civilized angst. Riddel was another of the characters for whom I only got a so-so feel, in case you couldn't tell. 


	11. Kid

A/n: This one is right on the heels of the last one, which has barely had a chance to cool off. Thanks to **Paladin Dragoon**, who reviewed Chapter Ten, and thanks again to everyone who reviewed Chapter Nine.

Warning for profanity this time...duh.

I've also taken some liberties here, and included some Australian slang. I think it mentioned somewhere in the guide that Kid's accent is based on Australian, so I went with it. If you actually are Australian, or know the slang very well, let me know if I've fucked up anywhere in here.

* * *

Kid

Succored:  
Homecoming

Course he came after dark, when the light was fire and stars. It ain't that he doesn't like the daylight, it's just that he prefers to do his business when only the people who need to know are around. And after dark, when the only people out are people on business, is that time..._his_ time. I'd been feelin him nearby all day today; as always when he was close, I'd been chokin off the urge to look about and try to spot him. It gets on my last nerve sometimes—I say there's no point in playing silly buggers—but he likes secrets. Besides, tryin to force him to come out before he's good and ready is like herdin cats, even for me who knows him.

Although he was still in the trees round my campsite, I looked back over my shoulder and hollered: "Were ya gonna come and sit? It's a beauty out here," I waved my hand round at the trees and stars over our heads, "and I dunno about you, but I've got nowhere to rush off." And it was nice—El Nido summer weather, right? Not pissin down rain, so it must be warm out. "Dinner's up, and I think I've got..." I fossicked in my bag for a minute and came up with an extra bowl and spoon. "Yep, I do."

"I already ate, thank you," he said, but he came into the camp. He was still playin the game—he had his cloak on, and the hood up—but I recognized his voice even though it had been a long time since I really talked to him last. Since he'd been standing behind me in the trees, he had to walk through the camp so he could stand opposite me across the fire. Though there was a ring of stones round the firepit, he still stood far enough back that the heat couldn't touch his boots.

His mouth opened to say somethin, but I interrupted. "Hell, drag up a rock; ya ain't gettin no taller, mate." He didn't, but I guess I wasn't that surprised. I've never seen such a bloke for body language; every little sigh and scratch means somethin with him, and he always watches himself close. I ignored him for a minute, dishing myself some fish stew from the cooking pot; it was bloody hot, and I burnt my tongue on the first bite. "So what brings ya here?" I asked, lisping a little through my scalding lips.

"You know what has brought me," he said.

I laughed, rocking back to look up at the stars. "I thought you _wanted _to play games, Gil. Or have ya still not got rid of the way people see ya?" Sitting forward again, I took another bite of fish and peeked at him over the top of my bowl.

He took off his cloak and folded it over his left arm, frowning at me. "Your grammar is still just as awful as ever. Are you really that attached to that accent?"

"Rack off, hairy legs," I said without rancor. "If ya came for somethin, spit her out. Either play games, or quit playin em."

"Have it your way." He set one foot a bit behind himself and shifted all his weight onto it, like he was leanin away from me. I'd seen him do that to a million blokes—and especially sheilas—over the years, but he'd never done it to me before. "I came to offer you an opportunity. You know who you are, and you know who I am." He shrugged, lookin defensive. "If you wish, now that everything has become clear and the danger has passed, you could return home with me." His hands came up next to his temples, palms out, fingers spread. "If you want to stay here, of course I can hardly blame you; after all, this world is all you have ever known. But I want you to know there are...other options. If, after finding out the truth, you are not as much at home here as you used to be, I would be willing to show you the world that _is_ yours." It was a lot of talk from him, and did it feel weird—! Finally I figured out what sounded off: for the first time in my experience, he was unsure enough that he was tryin to _explain_ himself.

Things had been weird with Serge and the others, weird enough to make me leave, but now my old mate was even acting different. I was fair gobsmacked, and a little leery. I didn't know how to be a sister to this bloke; all I knew was how to be Kid to him. How much of himself was riding on my yea or nay? Damn, but I'd have cried my eyes out before I'd have thought of this. "Well, Gil, I—I'd need some time to think her over, ya know?" For lack of anything better to do, I ate some more stew. Naturally, the bite I took had a little fish bone in it. That'd be right. I spit it out and flicked it into the fire. Treacherous though it was, it was good tucker, so I had another spoonful. Should I have called him by his real name instead? I knew it now, but...aww, _bloody hell_.

"Certainly," he said. "I would not ask you to rush into anything, especially not a decision as important as this." He paused, a thoughtful look round his mouth, his arms crossed over his chest. "You can leave me a message at the usual place when you've decided; include the date, place and time...in the old code. Does that suit you?"

"Aye, a fair idea," I agreed, totterin back onto somethin like solid ground. "Trot out the party line once more for old times' sake, huh?" I laughed a little at the memories of the times we'd had together...the bloody Radical Dreamers.

He gave me a half a nod, but it was--whaddyoucallit--noncommittal. A half-assed tilt of his chin, anyway. Without sayin anything more, he put his cloak back on and started to walk off.

"Hey!" I shouted. Stupid, shoutin at Magil—he always reads it for the desperate bluff that it is—but I heard myself do it anyway. "Don't run off, mate. C'mon then, ain't ya got time to drink a cuppa? This ain't finished yet."

There was a scuff sound as his boot came to a stop on a buried rock. "What is not finished?" he asked, his back to me. So it was back to the damned games, then.

"This convo. We ain't done thrashing things out til there's been coffee all round, remember? _Remember_?!" What the hell was this? My voice had got all squeaky of a sudden, and I never repeated myself. I cleared my throat before I finished. "I got that from you: a cuppa is as good as a handshake when yer in the right company, right?"

"Yes." He didn't elaborate, or even turn round to look at me, but at least he didn't start off again.

I stood up and dumped the rest of my dinner back in the pot, along with my spoon. "Well then? Sit yer arse back down here before I kick it clear to the moons, you fuckin hypocrite." I grabbed up my kettle from the pile of gear at the foot of my bedroll, headin for the stream a dozen yards away. As I brushed past him he stood aside, and I turned round to face him. "Stay right where you are, cobber," I said. "I ain't goin nowhere."

He narrowed his eyes at me, but he crossed his arms again and leaned against the nearest tree.

At the stream, I stripped off my leather gloves so they wouldn't get wet while I filled the kettle full enough for four cups of coffee. Once I had the water, I set the kettle next to me on the grass. Then I buried my shakin hands halfway up my forearms in the cold water, waitin for a minute to see if my temperature would go back down. Gettin mad at Gil is like gettin pissed at a rock. Even tellin off Serge has more effect.

A few breaths later, I dried my hands off on my skirt and grabbed up the kettle. I'd taken two steps when I realized I'd left my bloody gloves on the bank. Takin another deep breath, I set the kettle down, fetched the gloves and stuffed em back on my hands. Then I took up the kettle a third time and went back to the campfire—still pissed, but in control.

For a minute.

He was still there leanin against the dogwood when I got back. I was quiet while I took the stew down from the pothook, hung the kettle on in its place, and put my dinner back in the bowl. Sittin back on my haunches, I looked at him. "Have a seat, _Janus_," I said. "I ain't gonna bite ya; we had that talk years ago, as I recall, and you still don't look like no cow to me." I tucked into the rest of my supper.

There must have been somethin to that name business, because he finally did sit down, lookin at me with a surprised expression in his eyes and shoulders.


End file.
